The Lady and Mr. Jones

by Alyssa Alexander

  “Will the tenants’ hearts withstand the loss?” she murmured into the sunshine, offering her fears up to the shining beacon. There was no response. Not from the beams warming her face or from the man standing beside her.

  She needed to think. To settle. The walk back to the Abbey was short, if she went over the open fields rather than the lanes and roads crisscrossing the land, but those moments could be used to gather herself.

  Her father had always said a good walk would solve most of life’s problems.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Sparks.” Turning to the man, she smiled into the bespectacled face. “I’ll return this afternoon, but I need to be at Ashdown Abbey.”

  …

  Jones had never seen anything of such magnitude.

  From the innyard on the edge of the village he could see all of Ashdown Abbey, the valley it was nestled in, and the surrounding farmland. More was hidden beyond trees, beyond the river ribboning in the distance.

  “Oi! Sir!” The innkeeper called cheerfully, wood and iron bucket smacking against his calf as he strode past Jones. “The mail coach won’t be by for another three hours at least, if yer lookin’ to travel.”

  “Thank ye, sir.” Jones lapsed into the local patter, nodding his thanks. “I’m jest lookin’ for a bite to eat on me way through.”

  “Where’s yer horse, eh?” The innkeeper smacked his buckets down in front of the water pump set in the center of the courtyard.

  “Down at th‘ blacksmith’s. ’E threw a shoe.” It was true enough. He and the horse had spent the night in a thatch of woods, one of them rolled in his greatcoat and the other snorting out his disgust at the lost shoe. “Helluva great house, there.” Jones set his hands in his pockets and nodded toward the Abbey.

  “’Tis. One thousand, six hundred four acres. And a half.” The innkeeper surveyed the valley view, chest puffing out as if he were the owner. “The half being part of a land dispute back in 1513. Those ruddy Froggans—neighbors ta the north in those days—stole that half acre and the Ashdowns ne’er did get it back.”

  “Shame.” Jones’s lips twitched. Ruddy Froggans.

  “Aye. There ain’t no male heir, neither, which is even more of a ruddy shame. Earldom went to an idiot cousin, so the family only kept the ol‘ barony. ’Course, ’tis the richest in Britain just the same.” Huge hands worked the pump. Up, down, up, down. Water splashed, clear and sparkling in the sunlight, cascading into the bucket. “The baroness, she’s a right good sort though. Rumor is she used ’er pin money ta pay for cottage roofs, as she’d promised they’d be repaired this year.”

  Jones didn’t speak, but simply took in the tiny cottages north of the expanse of stone that was Ashdown Abbey. Beyond that, field upon field of green and gold patchworked over the countryside.

  All of it hers.

  Every haystack, every tree, every blade of grass—and every person living and working there. Hundreds of people.

  How did she live with that responsibility?

  “Does she—” He stopped, not sure what he wanted to say.

  “The baroness?”

  “It is not important.” Jones shook his head, looking back to the Abbey and its surroundings. It was a vast, immeasurable estate she was protecting—and more acres in other parts of England.

  It might as well be another country, another world.

  “Shame she weren’t born a man.” The innkeeper huffed. “Though if she had been, she might not have that sweetness about her.”

  Jones turned around. The pump still moved, up, down, driven by those competent hands. Cheeks pink from exertion, the innkeeper exchanged one bucket for the another.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Got ’er father’s mind and ’er mother’s sweetness.” Up, down, with arms corded with muscles. “Ne’er saw someone take ta the earth and the people the way she did, even as a girl.”

  The innkeeper stopped pumping, let the last of the water run into the second bucket. Puffing out a breath, he wiped wet hands on the grayed, worn apron tied about his waist.

  “You knew her as a girl?”

  “And her father before her.” The innkeeper bent over, grasped the bucket handles. Water tipped over the edges as he stood again, landing on his boots and recoloring the leather a darker shade. “We were boys running the same land. Me father’s a cottager.”

  “Ah.” There was a great deal Jones wanted to know, to ask. But he did not. There were so many words they stuck in his throat, vying for a release.

  “Come in for that bite, eh? Me missus has a good a thick stew and bread today.” The innkeeper sloshed away with his buckets, whistling through his teeth. He entered the inn through the rear door, bellowing for a bowl of stew before he was over the threshold.

  Jones threw one final glance at the great house larger than the War Office. Larger than even than the Royal Pavilion or Carleton House. Perhaps even Westminster.

  This was where she had been born.

  He been left at the front door of a foundling hospital.

  Hunching his shoulders, Jones set his course to follow the innkeeper’s and ducked into the common room. Half a dozen men ranged at the counter, another half dozen at the tables. Locals, by the looks of the conversation passing between tables and stools.

  Jones took a seat at the counter between a man half his size and twice his age, and a young man who looked as if he’d grown a foot in the last week and forgotten to eat. He nodded to each, then to the innkeeper behind the counter.

  “Thet stew will be right out, sir.” The innkeeper reached toward the tankards lining a shelf behind the counter. “Ale?”

  “Aye. Many thanks.”

  “Ya be needin’ a room?”

  “No.” Jones accepted the tankard and drank deep of the bitter ale. “The horse should be ready soon, I think.”

  “Horse threw a shoe.” The innkeeper leaned to the side to explain the circumstances to Jones’s new companions. “Down at the blacksmith’s now.”

  “Well, sir, you couldn’t have found a finer village or pub to throw that shoe.” The old man cackled. “Though things’ll be a mite tight around here soon.”

  Black looks all around. Counter patrons to innkeeper to tables patrons.

  “Eh?” Attention pricked, Jones cocked his head in question.

  “The granaries of the big house burnt down. Right down ta the ground.” The old man thumped his tankard down beside his empty stew bowl. Uneasy murmurs rippled through the common room. Silence rippled in their wake. “Grain’ll be scarce soon. Them trustees were jest here not more’n a week past, but the muckworms won’t help.”

  “Muckworm sounds—” He wanted to say ominous, but he wouldn’t have known that word without Angel’s books. “Not good.”

  “’Tisn’t.” The innkeeper leaned down, ready for a bit of unfortunate gossip. “The old earl put the estate in trust, see? Typical, o’course, ’cept our baroness knows what’s what. She could have managed it all—would do better than Prinny at managing the country. Right smart girl, our baroness.”

  “What’s that to do with muckworms?” Jones set his arms on the counter, as if ready for his own bit of gossip.

  “Oh, they don’t care none about us, see?” The boy to Jones’s left had his face nearly in the stew bowl, shoveling it in as if it might be his last meal. “Them trustees, the uncle—the uncle is the worst. He’s our baroness’s guardian, but he’s less smart than the trustees.”

  “Uncle?” This was what he’d come for. News, information, opinion. All of it would be important.

  “Aye.” The boy swung to face him as he spoke, the old man doing the same a moment later. Jones leaned back so he could see both. “That uncle, he’s tricky,” the boy continued. “They say he disappears in plain sight and drinks blood. It’s why his eyes is so scary. And I seen him riding late at night like demons was after him.”

  “Codswallop.” The innkeeper wiped the area in front of Jones. Again. Once more. Nothing changed on the bar top. “The u
ncle is a bastard by choice, begging yer pardon.” He nodded to Jones. “The old earl was fooled, as the bastard’s nature t’weren’t out until the old earl died. Eh, but our baroness is an Ashdown. She knows what’s what, and she’ll do what’s right.”

  “Aye, she will, if she has the chance.” This was shouted from a table behind them.

  “True enough.” The old man to Jones’s right moved closer, opened his mouth—and stopped when the kitchen door swung open to reveal a tall, wide woman with rosy cheeks and a bowl of stew in her hands.

  The previously attentive patrons listening to the conversation suddenly became attentive of their meals. Nothing but quiet and the clink of spoons against bowls was heard as the innkeeper’s wife plunked a bowl in front of Jones.

  She studied the room. Frowned. “What bit of mischief are you all up to now?”

  “Nothing!” The innkeeper started rubbing the bar top yet more vigorously. “Just letting our newcomer here know what’s what about the big house.”

  “Well, that’s a simple tale.” Chafed and red hands settled on the woman’s hips, gripping their ample girth. “The old earl had a choice. Give the baroness everything outright and hope some rapscallion didn’t turn her head, or protect the barony so she could marry a man she loved. He protected it—only them trustees and thet uncle are in league or summat. Our baroness is a good girl, but they don’t give her leave to do what needs doing.”

  “Don’t the trustees do it?” He knew the answer of course. The baroness had said as much—but he wanted to know what these people thought. Those who bore the brunt of the trustees’ short sightedness.

  “Them?” The innkeeper’s wife snorted. “They don’t understand as much as a flea. ’Tis all numbers back in London.”

  He couldn’t disagree. Dipping his spoon into the bowl, he retrieved beef and carrot and potato. When they hit his tongue, his mouth exploded with flavors he couldn’t have imagined—herbs, spices, onion, butter. It was home and flavor, heart and comfort. All in a single mouthful.

  He must have made a sound, because the innkeeper’s wife laughed.

  “You’ll do, sir.” She folded those work-reddened hands over her apron. “The door is always open to a man who enjoys my stew.”

  “It’s—it’s—”

  “Aye, ’tis. My missus is a fine cook.” The innkeeper beamed first at Jones, then at his wife, round face splitting with the grin. “She’s also clever, an‘ she’s right about our baroness. Why, she were out just this morning, standing over the granaries.”

  “Helped carry water, too!” Came a shout from one corner or another of the common room. “I saw her wit‘ me own eyes. Our baroness does right by all the generations of Ashdowns, going back to the first Mary Elizabeth Frances.”

  “She does,” the innkeeper agreed. “Thet uncle of hers, though—don’t trust ’im a wink. He’ll put a knife in yer gullet as soon as look at ya.”

  Jones dipped his spoon into the stew again, blew on it to cool the heat. “What’s ’e like in London, I wonder.”

  “Dunno.” The old man next to him leaned forward. Bushy brows rose, their lengthy hair bristling with the movement. “But I ’eard tell ’e turns into a demon with red eyes. Nine feet tall, they say, and ’e can freeze you with a look.”

  “Oh, thet’s foolishness,” the innkeeper’s wife scoffed, waving away the tale with both hands.

  “’T’isn’t.” The old man sat up straight and jabbed his fork at Jones. “I ’eard it from me wife’s cousin’s son’s nephew, who came up from London just last month. A demon, they say in the rookeries.”

  “What the hell was he doin’ in the rookeries, I’d like to know?” The innkeeper settled his arm on the bar top, squinting at his customer.

  “The boy? Or Wycomb?” The old man held out his empty tankard, jiggled it from side to side in an unspoken request.

  “Both, eh?” The innkeeper accepted the tankard and began to fill it from the barrel spigot behind the counter. He didn’t take his eyes from his customer, though he seemed to know just when to turn the spigot so the tankard didn’t overfill.

  “Boy was paid a ha’penny to deliver a message. ’E takes on odd jobs on th‘ docks from th’ East Indiamen, ’oping ’e’ll get a job when ’e’s older.” The old man shrugged. “Dunno why Wycomb was in the rookeries.”

  Jones continued to spoon the stew into his mouth, but his ears were buzzing. It wasn’t the red eyes or ability to freeze that caught Jones’s attention.

  Rookeries.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Only a few gray tendrils of smoke drifted up into the late spring air. Still, they were visible against the brilliant blue sky above. Cat stepped over charred wood, over ash waving in the slight breeze.

  So much loss—so much fear for her tenants and laborers. Would there be enough to feed them? She had walked over the Ashdown lands yesterday. Dreamed of fire in the night. Walked again in the late morning light. But she still had no answers.

  The only solution seemed to be marriage. If she married, the Abbey was hers, as were the expenses. As were the tragedies.

  She breathed in, choked on the stench of smoke and burnt wood. Standing in the midst of the rubble, avoiding the spots still steaming and emitting an occasional flame, Cat could only mourn the loss of her people’s security.

  Then she saw them, beneath fallen beams but just far enough away from the flames they might have survived—burlap bags.

  They would be filled with grain. At least three bags lay in that triangle of charred wood and earth—sideways, fallen, but unburnt. Water marks marred one bag, but not the others. How much good grain might there be hiding in that unplanned cave?

  Feet moved without thought, half-boots crunching on scorched timber. She scrambled over beams, tripped over partially burnt thatching. Yet she could not stop her feet from running, her hands from windmilling as she moved.

  Hope lodged beneath her breastbone, compelling her feet.

  The fallen beam lay over the bags, driving them into the ground so the once round shapes were now oblong. Grasping the nearest bit of burlap with ungloved hands, she tugged, pulled. But there was no movement. Nothing. That semi-wet sacking was lodged beneath a joist wider than her own body. But that didn’t mean a few inches wouldn’t make a difference.

  She crouched, uncaring whether the pretty sleeve of her lavender gown would be salvageable or her skirts were dusted with ash. All that mattered was the grain.

  She set a hand to the timber, then her shoulder, and shoved.

  She hissed out a breath. Rough, partially burned wood scraped against her arm through the thin capped sleeve of her gown. Digging her feet into the rubble, she pushed harder. Teeth gritted, muscles straining, elation shot through her as the beam shifted.

  Releasing her muscles, Cat stood, let out the breath she’d been holding. After a moment to recover, she crouched again, planted her feet in ash and set her shoulder once more to the wood.

  “Here. Let me.”

  The beam moved with a sudden jerk as someone with more strength shoved at it. She nearly lost her balance, but she dug in, centered herself, and pushed again—knowing without looking that Jones was working behind her.

  The beam shifted, groaned, then fell into the rest of the burned wreckage with a splintering sound. Ash and blackened remains exploded, shooting into the air. Small projectiles rained down, rattling against their brothers, leaving only light ash still floating.

  “Oh!” The sound escaped her lips without permission. She straightened, puffed her cheeks, and let out another heavy breath. Waving away the ash, she took in the unburned bags of grain.

  But it was Jones she wanted to see now.

  Black streaked over the shoulder of his coat. Bits of gray dust clung to his sleeve, dancing merrily in the breeze as if they weren’t part of the destruction. Cat reached out and brushed them away, keeping her gaze averted from Jones’s face.

  She didn’t know what she would see there. The last time she had spo
ken to him, it had been in the dark. She had kissed him, held his hand as she waited for death.

  But she did have to look.

  What she saw there was all the fierce gentleness she’d felt from him that night. It burned from those deep brown eyes, needy but restrained. He stood away from her, head angled up as if he could not look at her directly, either.

  Or would not.

  They stood there, not looking. Breathing.

  Then his deep eyes met hers. He didn’t touch her. Didn’t need to. The heat in his eyes flared, and she felt the answer in her own body. Desire, lust even. She felt it now—that delicious sense of awareness, the warmth between her legs, the tightening of every muscle.

  He turned away. Drew in a ragged breath. She never heard the exhale, as either pride or fear sent her reaching for the burlap.

  “The grain.” The words were awkward to her own ears.

  Coarse threads brushed against her skin. She gripped the nearest bag, tugged. It loosened, but did not come out. She stepped around, angled her body, tugged again. It came free and a pair of large, competent hands were there to relieve her of her burden.

  “How many bags are there?” His words were no less awkward than hers had been, accompanied by a choked sound that might have been a grunt as he hefted the bag onto his shoulder.

  “Five, total.” The next bag was there, the others past it and still under rubble. She scrabbled with fingers already black with soot, pivoted her body for a better position.

  A quick glance showed the swing of Jones’s brown jacket as he carted the grain away from the burned area. Only his back was visible, the breadth of it. No muscle could be seen through his coat, but it was there beneath cloth and skin.

  A hitch in her lungs, another in her belly. She turned away and gripped the bag in front of her to drag it from what was left of the smoking granaries.

  “Wait!”

  She reeled, lost her footing, regained it, and looked up—Jones sprinted toward her. He peeled his coat off as he ran, leaving nothing but the cotton shirt moving over his body.